sleepless in tulsa
by endlessly wandering
Summary: tonight, my bedroom door stays closed, and the light in the bathroom mysteriously remains on.


**Happier: finally got that beginning! the rest just flowed. LOL :)**

 **this ending sucks so I'm sorry D:**

 **sleepless in tulsa**

At first, I don't even hear him.

It's the thunder and rain, beating down on our old, weary house, that rouses me awake. It's the booming call of thunder and flashing answer of lighting. It's the steady pit-pat of rain, the cold of my sheets, the way the house is too quiet on a night of thunderstorms. Pony is usually cramming for a spot in my room on a night like this, but tonight, my bedroom door stays closed, and the light in the bathroom mysteriously remains on.

I'm laying in my bed, about to fall back into the deep depths of sleep, when I hear it. It's low at first, but ends on a high-pitched whine; almost like a pig has somehow entered our house. It comes not five minutes after the first, and then it comes in intervals of five or ten minutes between each, all of them ending with the faucet in our bathroom still running from the previous.

It's only when the faucet is still running after about an hour that I finally swing the covers off of my body and get to my feet. Slowly, like I'm drunk, I make my way towards my door and nearly throw the old door off its hinges just by opening it. The small crack––now growing larger with each open and close––at the end of my door causes me to make a mental note to myself to get it fixed, or even replaced, but then the noises come from the bathroom and all of it is lost.

I only find the bathroom because of the small shaft of light that peers out from the bottom of the door. I take one step towards it and nearly slip and fall on my ass; water is everywhere. It reflects the light in the bathroom, and only as I open the door does it get worse. The bathroom is practically flooded, water running down the counters, soaking the ends of my sweatpants, and anger boils beneath my skin. Growling, I turn and walk back out, but something like a pitiful slur falls from my lips.

"Christ, Pony," I curse from the corner, and I hear movement from the other side of the small space as I walk back into the room. Shutting the faucet off and beginning to throw towels on the ground to soak up some of the water as best they can, I raise my eyes from the sink to meet his and scold him, like always, but something's off the moment our gazes meet.

For a moment, I swear I'm looking at my youngest brother; guilt burns brightly in his eyes, shadowed with his own misery. The paleness of his face contrasts with his darkened, more tanned skin, and he looks like he's lost about twenty pounds just by throwing up. His bottom lip trembles and he whimpers softly at the sight of me standing before him; tears cause the burning guilt to waver and flicker in his gaze before falling onto his pale skin. It's only as his eyes clear that I find myself staring at Soda, his brown eyes dark with sickness, vomit dried on the corners of his mouth, his body curled in on itself, his hair an absolute mess.

It's nothing I've ever seen from him before.

"Soda," I make my voice light and calm despite the anger threatening to leak through. "What happened in here?"

I know what's happened, but nonetheless, I want his side. His eyes flutter like he's about to fall asleep, and so I ask again, "Soda, what happened?"

He shakes his head at me as if the question is some type of interrogation.

Feeling too powerful standing over him, I maneuver myself through the hoard of towels and sit down on the corner of the bathtub. I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, to get a better look at him and brush some hair out of his face. He's sweating like a dog, but as I put the back of my hand against his forehead to check for a fever, his skin is cold.

"'m sick," he finally murmurs, and his voice is raw and scratchy.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

His face twists in some sort of agony as another wave of nausea hits him. "Didn't wanna," and then, as if this whole thing were a fight, he whispers, "I'm sorry, Dar... I'm real sorry."

"You ain't got anything to be sorry for."

The conversation pauses as he vomits again, and this time, he pushes himself away from the toilet to lean against my knee. I instinctively move my hand and set it lightly on the top of his head, running my fingers through the soft mop of dark hair as he says, "You're awake."

"Your point?"

"You shouldn't be. I can take care of myself."

I smile softly, scoffing. "Keep tellin' yourself that, kid. Especially when you're even worse than Pony has ever been."

As if he's summoned, Pony appears in the doorway, his green eyes wide in horror. Soda, trying to be comical, lifts a shaking hand to wave at him. "Hey, Pone."

I nod in the direction of their bedroom. "Go back to bed, Ponyboy. He'll be fine." He's quick to leave, and I'm thankful he does as I asked, for his own complexion was beginning to grow about ten shades lighter. I sigh and look back to Soda, noticing the way he's shaking and how lethargic he's becoming.

"You're okay," I say in the silence. He shakes his head, scoffing, only to hiss in pain.

"I hate this," he says through clenched teeth. "I hate all of this."

He suddenly rushes forward and leans heavily against the toilet as he vomits again. My heart sinks as he simply rests his cheek against the side of it once he's finished, as if he doesn't have the strength to move away. His eyes find mine; I settle on the ground next to him and watch as he immediately slumps against my shoulder, skin against skin.

"You're okay," I repeat, feeling sleep tug at my conscience.

Something like an "I know" slips between the cracks of my mind as I manage to fall asleep, taking Soda with me as the bathroom lights are shut off inside of my head.


End file.
